


Brave New World

by Tamuril2



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: AU, Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamuril2/pseuds/Tamuril2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q, the technological Quartermaster of MI6. 007, the infamous agent of MI6. But not many know that these two met before that notorious scene in the art gallery. Back when Q was Charles and Bond was sent to kill him. No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave New World

It’s Bond that finds Q. Back when he isn’t Q yet and only Charles and MI6 wants him dead.  
But then, that’s how most Quartermasters start off really. Hacking into secret places they shouldn’t, being too smart, and lacking in any self-preservation whatsoever (regardless what Q says to the contrary). So, it doesn’t surprise Bond at all when yet another hacker is found snooping around and he’s called in to terminate them.  
***  
“Blast it all!” the older Q shouts as he slams his laptop shut and runs a shaking hand through his thinning hair. “That makes the sixth times this week. He’s just laughing at us now. Someone find out who this hacker is, now!”  
***  
Bond asks if they want this one alive, because sometimes M and the others seem to forget how they get most of their geniuses. M gives him a scathing look that would put the Queen to shame (it made you wonder whether you should just bow out already and stop being such a colossal disappointment to your country…and maybe confess to stealing that nifty handgun from Q’s back storage room while you were at it). The other man in the room just blinks as if Bond is some sort of bizarre animal in a museum. Bond shrugs at both of them.  
***  
“You’re running low on geeks,” he says. It conveys everything he wants. Short, sweet, and nothing left to waste.  
M raises an eyebrow.  
“Fine. Dead.” He walks out of the room, nabs a quick kiss from Miss Moneypenny along the way (never know when it might be your last), and gets his cool gadgets from his Quartermaster, a man with as little humor as he owns hair.  
***  
0/0/0/0/0/0

He gets a crisp, white ticket for third class on a plane to Russia. He even understands the Economy part to an extent (secret spy organizations have budget cuts too), but having to suffer through three hours of sitting beside a crying baby and his frantic, young mother is just adding insult to injury. He’s pretty sure someone in the Q branch is laughing at him.  
***  
“He’s teething,” she says apologetically. “I can’t seem to help him at all.”  
Bond ponders and decides he’s tired enough. He pulls the little flask of scotch out of his pocket. “My Mum always put a bit of this on our gums.”  
“Really?” Her eyes go wide with disbelief.  
“Yep.”  
“..And it works?”  
“Every time.” He twists off the top and hands it over. Five minutes later it’s blissfully quiet.  
***  
And then Bond finds himself inside a high security facility not a few hours later. Somewhere to the North and a bit to the East. Colder, a little wet from the long trek in the snow, but still able to carry out his orders. His Quartermaster cuts the alarm system and Bond gets to work.  
***  
“Your target is two levels down and to the left, 007.”  
“Got it,” Bond says, drawing his Walther PPK from his belt and checking the clip.  
***  
The guards lined along the hallways like so many fish in a barrel are no match for him…well, the third one gets a couple lucky punches in and a sixth wings him in the arm, but other than those two hiccups, Bond gets no trouble from the locals. But that’s where everything gets grey and decidedly not-good. He opens the unlocked door – that should’ve been his first clue – and steps into the cold room – second clue. Curled in the corner of the space, a lanky boy hugs his legs to his chest and stares at him.  
“What age did you say he was again?” Bond asks with his hand on his earpiece, just in case it decides to jump off…What? It’s happened before. Little things hate him. A crackle of static and then:  
“I didn’t,” comes the snappy answer. “Why? Is there a complication?”  
“You might say that. Q…” Bond’s breath fogs in the frigid air and he lowers his gun just a bit. “Q, he’s not even legal age.”  
“007, stop trying to grow a heart. Some terrorists are twelve. Take him out.”  
Bond raises his gun again, but can’t pull the trigger. Not when he can see the blatant torture marks on the boy, his many years of being an MI6 agent aiding him in distinguishing where each mark came from. Hear his rattling coughs, probably from being water-boarded and then left in this frigid air to dry. Watch as his hollow eyes gawk blankly up at the agent before him and watch as this kid’s mouth curves into a wide, wide, drug-induced grin that means nothing.  
“Are…” the boy coughs and red sprinkles his lips. “Are you…here…*wheeze* to kill…me?”  
“Yes.”  
“You’re…*cough* late...” The boy hunches over more, curling protectively around his ribs, breathing shallowly. “B-bloody…left you…*gasp* enough clues…”  
Bond levels the gun at the center of the boy’s forehead as the kid lists to the side. Makes sense, the kid leading them to him. Bond had thought the geeks had found him a bit too quickly after all the running around from before. Besides, who wouldn’t want an end to this? Still, it doesn’t sit well with Bond, killing the kid. But he has his orders. His finger curls around the trigger. For Queen and Country.  
Hazel eyes blink up at him. “Will…*cough* will it…*wheeze* hurt?”  
Oh bloody…Bond curses in his mind. After all the kid’s gone through you’d think he’d be used to pain by now. But no, he just has to be the innocent, naive kind who still wonders if things can get worse, which – of course – they can. Bond grits his teeth. The boy doesn’t look seventeen. Probably never even kissed a girl before, if the leftover remains of his tweed sweater in the corner and the ripped remains of his khaki pants that hug his waist are any clue.  
“No,” Bond lowers his gun again, “it won’t.”  
“G-good…” the boy gasps.  
“What do you say to getting out of here, kid?” Bond asks.  
The boy coughs up more blood and shivers, but his eyes never leave Bond as a tentative light flares to life in them. Hope.  
“007, what are you doing?!” the Quartermaster in his ear shouts. “You have orders. Take. Him. Out. I don’t care if he’s nine!”  
You wouldn’t. Bond shakes his head. “New plan.”  
Silence. Static. “M will hear of this.”  
“Good. Tell her to bring new clothes and coffee. The safe house here is out of them.” Bond creeps closer to the boy. “What’s your name, kid?”  
“Charles…”

0/0/0/0/0/0

Surprisingly, M does have coffee and new clothes brought for Charles. She brings them herself, along with two more agents – 002 and 005 – both bland enough to match the cream walls. Those two make more sense to Bond. He only gives them a cursory glance and then raises an eyebrow at the brown paper bag in M’s hands. “You actually brought them?”  
Translation: You came yourself?? To Russia?  
M put the bag down on the down. It crinkles and flops to one side, but no one pays it much mind. Instead, M folds her arms across her chest. “You did ask.” It’s not every day you go against orders, Bond.  
“I did.” (I had to.) Bond takes a step back and leans against the oak table. “Didn’t think you’d bring it though.” (You’re that curious?)  
“You were just going to bring him in naked then?” (Wouldn’t you be?)  
Bond snorts and crosses his feet, still leaning against the table. The oak groans a little at his added weight, but holds. He ignores that and smooths his face into nothing. He’s going to play his cards a bit closer to his chest this time round. “Hardly. Borrowed some things from the cabin six miles over.” (He’s going to need medical attention.)  
“Of course you did.” (I’ll see to it after he’s cleared.) M sighs and looks as if she wants to rub her temples. Outside the cabin, the wind howls like a banshee and the sky cools to a dark blue. M finally straightens her “Where is he?”  
“You don’t know?”  
M narrows her eyes and pulls down on her fur jacket. “007.”  
“Couch.” Bond jerks a thumb back to the brown couch pushed close to the fire. It took a bit of finagling to get the bulky thing over there, but Bond thought it well worth the effort. Charles was blue to the lips by the time Bond got him here. So, move the couch he did. “He’s got a bit of hypothermia, among other things. Thought the fire might help a bit.” (He won’t last through any interrogation right now.)  
“I’ll inform medical.” (I can’t make exceptions, Bond.)  
“They’ll be thrilled, I’m sure.” (You can and will for this.)  
“Bond.” M only has to say that one word to let him know he’s dangerously close to overstepping the line – not that he hasn’t before, but this time Bond wants M on his side for this, so he dutifully draws back and lets her inspect Charles sleeping form.  
The boy lies on his side, curly hair in tangles (but thankfully clean now), and mouth open, frowning even in sleep. He twitches every so often from whatever bad memory plagues his dreams. Thank God M arrived now, instead of an hour earlier when Charles was screaming and crying, too tired and in pain to realize he is no longer a prisoner (sort of). Bond injected a good dose of morphine into him then and now Charles only twitches at the dreams, too far gone to fully wake or notice them for long.  
“He is young,” M says at last. (Where did they find him?)  
“But good enough to get into our systems each time,” Bond reminds her. (We could use that ability for ourselves. Make it an asset.)  
M’s lips play with becoming a smirk, but she forces it back into a thin line. “I see.”  
“You said we don’t waste good.” Bond folds his arms across his chest, deciding to dispense with the hidden messages and just say what he means. “He’s good.”  
“He’ll still need to be debriefed and cleared.”  
“Might want to wait a bit.” Otherwise, he’ll never see the difference between them and his former captors.  
“They do tend to be a rather eager about their jobs,” M concedes.  
Bond doesn’t reply to that. What use would it be to say more? He has M where he wants her, on his side. Time to take a tactful retreat and show respect for the woman who’d saved him. M glances over at Charles one more time and then straightens. “I’ll leave 002 here with you for backup.”  
Bond stiffens. He doesn’t even look at the red haired agent. 002 has a tendency to be too quick to judge and too young to admit to it. He’ll try and get info out of the boy himself, partly to show that he can and more to get the notice of the members above M. There’s nothing that says promotion quicker than a good spy who can get Intel by any means necessary. Brownie points. Bond hardens his gaze. “005.”  
M pauses, but lets his correction pass nonetheless. “Very well. Report back in a week, Bond. No more.”  
He risks a smile. “Yes ma’am.”  
She glares, though not as much as she normally does, and leaves with 002. 

0/0/0/0/0/0

Charles has a habit of flinching every time someone enters the room or moves something too quickly or really even looks at him for too long. Bond can’t fault him for it. Who knows what those men had done to him to make him help them. Instead, Bond goes about as if it’s a normal thing for people to do. Doesn’t treat Charles any different than he would any other new asset. He figures it might let Charles know that he respects him and doesn’t think him fragile.  
There’s one instance where Bond’s out hunting/scouting and 005 calls in, voice scratchy over the earpiece.  
“Bond, get back here now.”  
“What’s wrong?” he asks, already heading back to the cabin.  
“Kid dropped the skillet on my foot. I yelled. Now he’s stuck in some flashback. I can’t get him out of it.”  
Bond races for the cabin now, his heart drumming in his ears. He hasn’t felt this way since that time he got caught in Spain and had to outrace those bulls. He pumps his legs harder and wishes his boots crunching in the snow didn’t sound so much like hooves. He gripes his rifle tighter. “How bad?”  
“I called you, didn’t I?”  
“George!”  
“He’s in the back room. Won’t come out. Keeps screaming every two seconds.” A pause. “James, he’s got a knife.”  
The cabin looms ahead and Bond hasn’t seen a sweeter, more terrifying thing in his life. “I’m here.”  
He flings the door open and rushes in, dropping his rifle on the table as he goes. 005 is by the back room, hands stuffed in his pockets. The older man glances up at him.  
“Didn’t mean to scare him, Bond.”  
“I know.” Bond rests a hand on his fellow agent’s shoulder. “How’s the foot?”  
“Bruised. I’ll live.”  
“Good.” Bond winces at Charles screams. “Guess we’ll need to talk a bit to him after. Find out if there are any more triggers.”  
“Right.” 005 pushes off the wall and saunters off just as Charles lets out another gut wrenching scream. “I’ll get the tea ready.”  
Bond only nods, his entire focus now on the door separating him from Charles. He takes a deep breath, mentally goes through the various ways to disarm a person and how to disassemble a handgun, and then opens the door slowly. He can’t be sure that Charles won’t just attack him at first sight. He needs to be patient and slow, two things he hardly ever does. He stops the door at two inches.  
“Charles, its Bond.”  
Nothing.  
“Charles, I’m coming in.” He opens the door all the way and blocks the predicted knife attack. In three quick moves he’s disarmed the boy and let him go, the knife now in his hands. Charles’ eyes go wider and he scrambles back into a corner.  
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the boy sobs, arms covering his head. “I’m sorry.”  
Bond tosses the knife out the door, walks over until he’s a few feet away, and then hunches down. Smaller target, smaller threat. He’s seen it done it a hundred times before in hostage situations. Never had to be in the position before, so Bond hopes he doesn’t botch it too badly. “Do you like donkeys, Charles?”  
The boy’s breathe hitches. “W-what?”  
“Donkeys. Do you like them?” Bond quirks a forced smile. “Myself, I hate them. Too loud and smelly. But some people can’t get enough of them. Crazy lot.”  
“B-bond?” The boy cautiously peeks through his fingers at him.  
“Hey, kid.”  
“Bond, I…” the boy swallows and uncurls his hands from his head, blushing fiercely.  
“Nothing to be ashamed of, Charles.” Bond tells him. “Happens to all of us.”  
Charles looks away and Bond knows he hasn’t quite convinced the teenager. He sits down and crosses his legs, Indian style. “Got my first after my third mission. Some girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. Didn’t survive.”  
“Oh,” Charles breathes. His eyes water and he takes a few shaky breaths, leaning closer to the peeling wall.  
Bond wonders if it’s remnant of the flashback or if Charles is now scared of him. He shakes the thought off and focuses on the present. He might as well be blunt and honest with the boy. “Got my second after I was captured and tortured for a week.”  
Charles flinches.  
“How long they have you, Charles?”  
Nothing.  
“Charles?” Bond tries to catch his eye. “I need to know how bad your flashbacks could get. I can’t help you if I don’t know.”  
The boy licks his lips and picks at the sleeve of his new, tweed sweater. “Six months.”  
Shorter than Bond had thought, longer than he had hoped. Poor boy. Bond thinks about it and then chooses to try and get more Intel. Maybe then the kid won’t be pushed too hard when they get back to London. Can’t hurt any.  
“How?” he asks softly.  
“Was going to school. They said Mother wanted me. They’d been my drivers for years. Never…” The boy looks away. Probably trying to not cry. “I trusted them.”  
“Probably planted from the beginning.” Bond says. “Your mother rich.”  
“Not…not overly much.”  
“Father?”  
“Dead.”  
“So they just noticed you were smart then.” Bond decides. He clears his throat. “What did they want?”  
The boy shrugs. “Stuff. Codes. Weapons. Intel. Blackmail. Stuff.”  
“They the ones who wanted MI6 Intel?”  
“No. I…I thought you might notice if I went there too many times.” Charles starts to try and unravel a stray thread from his sweater. “I thought you’d kill me.”  
Bond reads the unspoken, I wish you had. He frowns and uses the same words M used to convince him at the beginning. “We don’t waste good.”

0/0/0/0/0/0/0

Somehow they make it through that week and back to London. Charles still freaks out at the slightest cross look or loud noise, but he’s not had a flashback in two days, so Bond counts it as a win. The 007 agent makes sure he slips into M’s hall and gives the woman his two cents worth.  
“Kidnapped by two planted agents. Mother’s rich, but not enough to catch anyone’s attention for that long. They must’ve noticed his hacking skills and decided to investigate.” He makes sure he has M’s full attention for this next part. “Had him for six months. He finally got the chance to contact us a month ago. Was hoping we’d kill him.” (He won’t be able to take much more right now.)  
She sips a mug of hot tea and stares out the window. “Will that be all, 007?” (I’ve done all I can.)  
“Yes.” (Don’t make me regret this.)  
Bond knows the bull dog on her desk is mocking him in some way. M’s lips quiver when she sees him eyeing it, but she retains her stony visage. An extra hard look glazes over her eyes. “Q says he wants his earpiece and gun back.” (There are other people, Bond.)  
“Lost them.” (*Translation indecipherable*)  
“Q will be most unhappy.” (Don’t push me, Bond.)  
“He always is.” (Don’t push me, M.)

0/0/0/0/0/0  
Bond makes himself watch Charles’ interrogation. By MI6 standards, it’s tame. Not that Bond thinks Charles will care one way or another. He’ll just remember the fear and anger. Hopefully, he’ll be able to get past those when MI6 decides to their heads on straight and offer him a job with them. And with any luck, the kid won’t hold a grudge and try to destroy them years later (that’s always a risk with broken geniuses). 

0/0/0/0/0/0/0

Charles passes. 

0/0/0/0/0/0/0

Bond gets saddled with babysitting him again.  
***  
“He already trusts you,” M says.  
Bond glares and accepts, if only because he doesn’t want someone else to mess this up any more than it has been.  
***

0/0/0/0/0/0

They don’t really spend much time together. Charles is regulated to the six by twelve room MI6 granted him and Bond still has missions to finish. Bond does make sure to check in on the kid every few weeks and plays a set or two of chess. Charles doesn’t say too much during those times. But then, he doesn’t need to. His fear lessens around Bond and he has absolute faith in whatever Bond says. It’s more than enough to show Bond what Charles is thinking.  
The level of trust Charles grants Bond scares the seasoned agent.  
He’s not a nice person. He’s done things that would make most people vomit and will continue to do them. He has issues with saying no to women and has a weakness for blowing things up and not returning gadgets. He hardly ever smiles and never thinks of complimenting a person unless he wants something from them. He is also…alarmed at how much Charles relaxes with him.  
He tries to explain how much this is a ‘bad idea’.  
“I will hurt you eventually,” Bond says as he moves a Rook forward and takes a Bishop.  
“I know.”  
“Then why?”  
“Because I’ll hurt you too,” Charles says, taking his Castle. “You haven’t left yet.”  
“I like danger.”  
Charles snorts. “You like blowing things up.”  
“That too.”  
“Check.”  
Bond frowns and moves his Knight to protect his King. “MI6 will probably offer you a job.”  
“I’m not making you an exploding pen.”  
“Too bad,” Bond moves his other Knight back. “You’re not scared of me?”  
“No.”  
Bond draws himself up and hardens his gaze.  
Charles moves a Rook. “Check.”  
Bond retreats again. “You should be scared of me.”  
“I know.” Charles glances over. “But you won’t do anything unless I backstab you, so I’m safe.”  
Bond raises an eyebrow. “No evil plans of word domination or revenge?”  
“No to the first, not yet to the last.”  
“Can’t you make one exploding pen?”  
“No.”  
“It’ll be legendary.”  
“No.”  
“I might need it one day.”  
“No.” Charles knocks over his Queen. “Check.”  
“An invisible sports car?”  
A short pause. “Maybe.”  
Bond grins. Charles knocks over his King and goes to make himself his seventh cup of Earl Grey. Bond stretches out on the couch and daydreams of an invisible sport’s car with rockets and bullet proof armor. 

0/0/0/0/0/0

The day comes when Charles is taken in by MI6. Bond doesn’t see him for many years. He doesn’t worry. Charles knows how to take care of himself now. Bond taught him well. 

0/0/0/0/0/0

This doesn’t mean Bond is totally ignorant of Charles progression.  
Miss Moneypenny tells him a new Q is working his way up through the ranks.  
M tells him to never bring another young asset ever again.  
The old Q quits.

0/0/0/0/0/0

He stares at the old painting of the warship and wishes he was somewhere else. Anywhere else really. Then a young man sits down next to him and Bond does everything in his power to not react. Charles hasn’t changed a bit. His glasses are still geekishly large, his hair a mop, and his tweed cardigan – just visible under his parka – is as bad as ever.  
“Makes me feel a little melancholy. Grand, old warship being ignominiously hauled away to scrap.”  
Bond sighs (in lieu of a groan). Not again. Charles knows he hates when he gets all philosophical on him; makes his brain bloody hurt, all those hidden messages. Why can’t people just say what they mean?  
Charles sniffs back. “The inevitability of time, don’t you think?”  
Oh, he’s going there, is he?  
“What do you see?” Charles asks, and Bond can just hear the smirk in his unusually flat tone.  
“Bloody big ship.” He glances at Charles. “Excuse me.”  
“007.”  
Bond sits back down, sighing again. M wouldn’t be so cruel.  
“I’m your new Quartermaster.”  
Evidentially, she can be.  
“You must be joking.”  
“Why? Because I’m not wearing a lab coat?”  
“Because you still have spots.”  
“My complexion is hardly relevant.”  
Ah, there’s that little pride Bond remembers so well.  
“Your competence is.”  
Charles stews for a second on that. “Age is no guarantee of efficiency.”  
“And youth is no guarantee of innovation.”  
Game.  
“One has it I can do more damage on my laptop, sitting my pajamas, before my first cup of Earl Grey, than you can do in a year in the field.”  
“Oh,” Bond smirks. “So, why do you need me?”  
Set.  
Charles takes a breath and shrugs one shoulder. “Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled.”  
“Or not pulled.” Match. “It’s hard to know which in your pajamas.”  
Charles finally looks over at him and Bond smiles. “Q”  
Charles smiles back. “007.”  
They shakes hands as if they’d never met before. One can’t be sure who’s watching these days.  
Charles reaches into his coat pocket and hands over an envelope. “Ticket to Shanghai. Commendation and Passport.”  
“Thank you.”  
“And this.” Charles hands over a small, black box.  
Bond opens it to find his favorite gun inside, though it looks to have been a bit upgraded. Good, old Charles, looking out for him.  
“Walther PPKS, nine millimeter, short.” Charles tries to look aloof. “There’s a micro dermal sensor in the grip. Been coded to your palm print, so only you can fire it. Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement.”  
Oh, he has gotten sure of himself.  
“And this?” Bond asks, half hoping it’s a key to an invisible car. Charles did promise one to him.  
“Standard issue, radio transmitter.” Charles glances at him. “Activate it and it broadcasts your location. Distress signal.”  
Huh, Bond didn’t know he was that valuable to MI6.  
“And that’s it.”  
Bond puts the transmitter into the box. “A gun and a radio. Not exactly Christmas, is it?”  
“Were you expecting an exploding pen?” Charles almost smiles. “We don’t really go in for that anymore.”  
Bond raises an eyebrow, but Charles only gets up and walks away. The kid turns back for just a second.  
“Good luck out there in the field.” Charles hesitates. “And please return the equipment back in one piece.”  
It’s the closest they’ll ever get to admitting they’re friends and worry about each other. Bond takes one last look at the picture of the old warship. “Brave new world.”


End file.
